


Between the Lines- a "Musketeers, Season 4" spin-off.

by Zedrobber



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Explicit Language, Explicit Sex, F/M, fanfiction of my fanfiction christ, milathos
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-07-27
Packaged: 2018-07-25 13:19:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7534234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zedrobber/pseuds/Zedrobber
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a collection of the sex scenes I DIDN'T write in "The Musketeers, Season 4." They'll be in chronological order, and it's my intention for it to explore their relationship as it deepens and gains trust, intimacy and awareness, mirroring their relationship in Season 4. They're the gaps I implied but didn't outright say, and I feel like they're important to the development of the relationship as I wrote it.</p><p>Thanks to all who supported me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. After Auxerre (Episode 6/7)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Musketeers, Season 4](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6817744) by [Zedrobber](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zedrobber/pseuds/Zedrobber). 



Their return from Auxerre- from the ball and from the memory of that night they had spent together- had been awkward, full of silences and breaks in the conversation that neither of them could quite bridge. The looks he kept shooting her were shy and worried and _hungry_ in equal measure, and she fought hard not to react more than the occasional look from under her eyelashes while he struggled to stay silent and stoic. She could almost _feel_ his desperation from across the carriage, and it terrified and aroused her more than she thought possible. They stopped at an inn- the same one from the way to Burgundy, unsurprisingly, and the urge to ask him to stay in her room was phenomenal. He hovered in her doorway, hesitant and unsure and looking everywhere except at her face.

She shut the door on him, using every ounce of willpower she had and trying hard not to imagine his sad eyes and his hurt expression from the other side of the wood. She slept fitfully and pretended it wasn’t because she was alone again.

\--

She hadn’t been able to escape him when they got back to the garrison, though. He asked her to stay, and as soon as it had been polite- perhaps before it was _really_ polite, to be quite honest- he had practically dragged her to his rooms, his eyes narrowed and dark and his jaw set. His hand was strong and warm on her arm as he propelled her with him, navigating the way to his rooms in the semi-darkness of a few small candles. She could hear his breathing; ragged and uneven, it spoke of his uncertainty despite the sure grip he had on her and the almost physical waves of need coming from him. He shut the door behind them, lighting the candles scattered haphazardly around his apartments, and there was a moment of trembling, wordless uncertainty between them as they looked across the room at each other, both poised as if for flight- muscles tense, breathing shallow, fists clenched painfully. He looked to her like a wild animal trapped in a small room- he was completely unknown, unfathomable and unpredictable. Would he hurt her? It was certainly possible, given their history. He didn’t look like the scared, broken creature of their last encounter; he was feral, his head low and his eyes fixed on hers like she was prey. But she could see his uncertainty, could feel the war going on inside him between gentleness and _need_ and she was thrilled to discover she didn’t mind which won.

She was bathed in the golden light of the candles and looked ethereal. _Like when you first saw her_ , his brain automatically thought. _Like an angel._

But that had been a lie, and everything since- he shook the thought from him, remembering the night they had shared. That wasn’t a lie. That had been real, and good. He needed her more than ever, his fingers almost itching to work their way under her dress, to feel her velvet-soft skin against his calloused hands again. He remembered everything; her smell, the taste of her- and how he wanted to devour her again, like he used to; there were days when they were married that he would spend hours between her thighs, worshipping her with his tongue until she was almost sobbing and unable to take more, her hands tangled tightly in his hair-

 _God,_ he thought, desperate and hard, _I want-_

But he wanted _everything_ , right now. He growled, unable to articulate the rushing thoughts of his brain and unaware of what he would have said regardless. He didn’t trust her. He didn’t know her anymore, not really; this tendril of hope that seemed to be curling between them was a delicate, thin thread, easily snapped at any moment by one wrong move, one ill-chosen word.

So he didn’t speak. He didn’t need to; she knew exactly what he wanted, what he couldn’t say for himself, and when he lunged for her with his hands outstretched and dark fire burning in his eyes, she allowed him to tear the lacings from her dress, shuddering with the vicious savagery of him as he ripped the cloth from her body and threw it to the floor. Yet his fingers were gentle on her skin; tracing over her body even as she felt his cock hard and insistent against her hip, his lips on her neck, her shoulder blades, anywhere he could reach. She turned, undressing him, allowing herself to watch his own body revealed from under so many layers of leather and cloth. He was battle-scarred and strong, hard where she was soft and more fascinating for it. She could not recall anyone she had been with who looked and felt like him. He almost whined when she unbuttoned his breeches, turning away from him to drape herself on the bed and wait, trying to look unconcerned and languid when her heart was beating so fast she thought he could hear it from where he stood.

He tossed his clothes away with a snarl and came at her like a beast, on her before she could draw breath and pinning her arms above her head with one of his hands. He looked down at her with his pupils blown and his teeth bared, and she had a moment of exhilarating fear where she both knew he could kill her and was almost certain that this time he wouldn’t. Almost.

She arched up against him, feeling his cock hot and slick against her, her eyes boring into his in silent challenge. _Go on, do it_ -

And he wanted to bury his head between her legs, to taste her again, but it seemed somehow far more intimate than just burying his cock in her and he couldn’t bring himself to submit to her like that willingly, so he let go of her wrists for long enough to drag her hips closer to him. God, he could _smell_ her cunt, could smell how much she wanted him, and when he pushed inside her she was already unbelievably wet and ready, her breath shuddering out like she had just been completed and her eyes falling closed. He grabbed a fistful of her hair, bracing himself against her, and began to fuck her like he had not dared to when they were first married, so scared of breaking her that he held back his lust, feeling as though he was somehow broken. But this Anne- _Milady_ \- could take it, could take every deep, brutal thrust and match it, her hips meeting his, her hands like claws in his back, her breath against his neck hot and gasping. She hooked her legs around his, drawing him impossibly deeper, and he responded by fucking her harder, teeth bared in a silent, savage roar. She had thought she would be quiet, that she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of her moans, but she couldn’t hold back, a litany of prayers and sobs and choking pleas spilling from her like water. He twisted the hand in her hair, viciously, and she dug her nails into his back in retaliation, biting down on his shoulder. He grunted in pain, shifting to his knees and bringing her into his lap, all but lifting her with him until he was sitting against the wall with her straddling his thighs, his cock so deep inside her that it almost hurt- _a perfect hurt_ , she thought. His hands were like a vice on her hips, guiding her into a savage rhythm- as if she needed the guidance- and she grabbed at his hair, one hand curling around the back of his neck more tenderly than she intended so she twisted the other painfully, making him fuck her even harder.

The shift in angle was almost what she needed; she could feel it building, the warmth uncoiling in her stomach, but she needed _more,_ and with an impatient growl she grabbed one of his hands and pushed it down between them in unspoken command. He smiled briefly, all teeth, and took the hint, curling his fingers and finding her clit with almost unnerving accuracy. She swore violently, and felt him huff an amused breath out against her shoulder as his clever, rough fingers worked against her deliciously, her muscles shaking and her body slick with sweat.

“Athos-“ she managed to groan out before she came, her breath hot against his ear, and it was his turn to swear, burying his head into her shoulder as he followed helplessly, shuddering and blind for what felt like forever, his blood pounding in his head like a call to war.

They collapsed in a sweaty-limbed, tangled heap on Athos’ bed; which, he mused, was a little too small to fit them comfortably. They stared in silence at the ceiling for a few moments, wondering what you said after sex like that. Athos decided to breach it, uncharacteristically.

“Are- are you alright?”

“Don’t ruin it, Athos,” she sighed, turning from him and settling as comfortably as she could. “You always want to ruin it with your big sad eyes.”

“I-“

“Shut up. And give me some room.”

“I can’t, the bed-“

“Is terrible and probably has lice. I’m trying not to think about it. Hush.”

He shut up and lay awake in the darkness, feeling like he should say something else and completely at a loss to do so, feeling the gap between them widen almost visibly again.


	2. After Episode 7

 

(episode 7)

He followed willingly enough, warm and pleasantly relaxed from the wine rather than his usual level of blind drunk. The smell of the candle smoke was still in his nostrils, his eyes adjusting to the darkness as they walked back to his rooms in silence that was only partly awkward. She _had_ looked beautiful in the candlelight, a golden, ethereal creature with sparks of fire in her eyes, and he was already half-hard as he shut the door behind them and hesitated.

“What?”

He shook his head mutely in the darkness, groping for one of the candles to light it and squinting in the sudden glow. His gaze moved to her, standing in the middle of his rooms with her arms folded over her chest nervously, biting her lip. He lit more candles, moving around the room with careful steps, until the whole place was brightly illuminated and welcoming. It surprised him; he didn’t often think of this place as anything other than a place to pass out. He was briefly embarrassed by the empty bottles littering the floor and the messy state of the bed, and frowned at them. His shoulders ached; in fact, everything ached after the hard day of manual labour, and he wondered how she was still standing, knowing she had done as much as he had.

 _How does this go?_ he wondered. The last time, it had been nothing but animal need and desire, nothing tender in it to speak of. But that kiss had been gentle, careful even- he didn’t even remember if they _had_ kissed the last time. He shrugged out of his doublet, taking a step forward and watching her tense.

“Are you-“ he asked, helpless. “We could-“

But she scowled at him and shook her head. “I’m fine. Stop standing there like a useless lump and help me out of this dress.”

He fumbled with her laces, trying very hard not to lose himself in memory, trying not to think of their wedding night and all those nights afterwards, wrapped in each other as though nothing else existed. The memories came unbidden, making his hands shake and his throat dry, but he managed to unlace her and then stepped back while she shrugged out of her clothes, her back still turned to him. He saw a pale scar on her shoulder blade and wondered what had happened to her, feeling a strange need to touch it. His fingertips were outstretched before he knew he had done it, ghosting over the scar, an unspoken question hanging between them. It hadn’t been there when they were married- he would have noticed.

She had frozen beneath his questioning fingers, her head half-turned over her shoulder towards him. “Knife,” she said shortly.

“Victim of yours?”

“Not at the time,” she replied, wryly, and Athos felt like he had missed something vital.

“Then-“

“Stop. I almost preferred it when you didn’t talk at all.”

He could feel the soft emotion of earlier starting to slip between his fingers, and clutched for it desperately, unwilling to let it go. “Sorry,” he mumbled, moving his hands away from her and tugging his shirt over his head, the locket clinking gently as it dropped back to his chest. She looked at it curiously, turning to face him so that she could touch it with fingers that were trying very hard not to tremble. He stood still, breathlessly as though she were a wild animal he didn’t want to scare away. He could feel his heart racing, wondering if she could feel it too. Her eyes were full of questions when she looked up into his again, her thumb stroking over the locket’s embossed front.

“I still don’t know why you wear this again,” she said, searching his expression for something, anything that would give her an answer. He couldn’t say it, couldn’t let those three words slip from his lips, and so he blinked at her and hoped that everything he couldn’t speak aloud was in his eyes.

She sighed, dropped the locket and instead, unexpectedly, ran her fingertips over his chest idly, looking down between them. “What are we doing, Athos?” she said tiredly. “Haven’t we done enough dancing around yet?”

“Perhaps,” he offered, daring to lift her chin so he could see her eyes again. “I think it’s time we stopped.”

“We’ll never-“ Milady protested, but she stopped talking as Athos leaned in to kiss her, almost as gently as she had kissed him earlier in the yard. He never ceased to surprise her with the way he kissed; he looked like such a surly brute sometimes that she forgot he did it with every part of his body and soul, his lips soft and insistent, his entire body moulding itself to hers, his hands inevitably drawing her in towards him. He kissed with a singular intensity that was thrilling and a little scary; she recalled when they were first courting- and how she used to laugh at the idea of that phrase- how terrified she had been when his kisses had left her weak-kneed and near tears; it was as if all of the deep, silent _feeling_ in his body that he was unable to let out in any other way was poured between them. In this, he was eloquent.

When they drew apart, Athos made a low-pitched noise in his throat, frowning before he opened his eyes.

“Get undressed,” she said as a reply, turning to the bed and sitting on the edge of it while she waited for him. He hurried to obey, allowing her the luxury of watching him in the candlelight, much more leisurely than the last time had been.

 _He has scars I don’t recognise and muscle I don’t remember,_ she thought almost sadly. Her fingers itched to run across his body, to re-learn him, and when he stepped towards her she reached for him awkwardly, pleased at the shiver that ran through him when her hands touched his chest, at the half-lidded gaze he gave her, his eyes dark. She allowed herself to take her time, to run her fingers over him curiously, and even shot him a wicked smile when he groaned as she brushed against his erection with gentle, deliberate fingertips.

It wasn’t quite making love, in the end; when his cock slid inside her, his control slipped- and hers with it, words forgotten in favour of harsh gasps of breath, their foreheads pressed together and her hands tangled in his hair, keeping him close. But it was closer than they’d been in years, his eyes almost worshipful as he met her gaze, his cock buried deep inside her. When he came, she swore she saw her name silently on his lips, though he would never have admitted it, and she didn’t need to remind him before his hand was moving between them, Athos settling comfortably beside her while he worked her to a shuddering orgasm that left her, strangely, wanting to cry- though she didn’t. It was odd; perhaps it was that he could see her properly, all of her- she felt more vulnerable than she had in so many years, and she turned her head from him so that she could push back the tears that threatened, not wanting him to see.

“Are you-“ he started, and she nodded, perhaps too quickly.

“I’m fine.”

He lay in silence for a moment, as if weighing out the options and wondering if he should perhaps say more, and she allowed, “That was…nice.” It wasn’t the right word, it wasn’t even particularly the right _feeling_ , but it was all she had, and after another pause where she wondered if he was going to speak, Athos pulled up the sheets around them and settled in against her back, his arm over her waist in a calculatedly casual move that he had been nervously wondering about for a few minutes.

She had almost fallen asleep, mess be damned, when she felt him press a light kiss to her shoulder, his breath warm and familiar against her skin. She smiled to herself and shifted comfortably, feeling the calloused pad of his thumb brushing her hip in soothing circles, feeling the crooked curve of his smile against her shoulder, and feeling content beyond her expectations despite there still being so much left unsaid. When he woke her up in the night with his crying, she rolled into his arms and stroked his hair back from his tear-streaked face until he calmed down. She barely even woke up, her body moving instinctively to him.


End file.
